by L. A. Witt
Matt swallowed. “I’ll be okay. Tattooing is probably the only thing that can hold my attention right now.”
Colin scowled.
“I’m serious.” Matt fought to hold eye contact. “When I get into the zone, I’m—”
“I know, but can you get into the zone right now?”
I don’t have a choice.
“Yes.” Matt hoped like hell his voice and eyes conveyed a certainty he didn’t feel.
His boss didn’t look convinced. “I’m serious. If you need any time off, or you need anything to help get your head together, all you have to do is ask.”
Matt believed him a hundred percent. Colin’s struggle with his eating disorder sometimes meant sudden days off, leaving early to see his therapist, or canceling appointments because he was too out of sorts to focus. He was in a good place most of the time, and he’d been really good for the past year or so. A lot of that probably had to do with him knowing when he needed to take care of himself, and having the clout to decide if he took time off or not.
“Thanks,” Matt said quietly. “I appreciate it.” And he totally did. But this was a brutal business where artists got paid for their work, not their time. He could take a few days off if he needed to and know his gear would still be here when he came back, but his landlord and car mechanic expected to be paid in money that Matt would only earn by, as Colin had put it, pounding skin.
“I do have another appointment this week, thank God,” Matt said. “All I have to do is get my gear working—or at least, get it to stay working—and I’ll be fine.”
Colin glanced at the faulty equipment. “You’ve been fighting with that thing for days. I’ll have Pete put in an order for another one, and you—”
“I can’t afford to buy a whole new setup. Not now.”
“Don’t worry about it. The shop will pay for this one.” As if he could see the resistance in Matt’s expression, he quickly added, “It’s yours to use until you can get your own, and then we’ll have it as a backup.”
Oh. Well. That made it a bit easier to swallow.
Matt gave his busted-ass equipment another look, then nodded. “Okay. Yeah. That’d be awesome.” He managed a tired smile. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
After Colin left the room, Matt exhaled. Well, that would be one load off his mind. One less thing to distract him. All he had to do now was bring in some clients to use that equipment on. And maybe stop thinking unprofessional and impure thoughts about that hot pilot coming in on Wednesday. Which he probably could have under normal circumstances. When an attractive woman came in for a tattoo, Matt could shut off his libido enough to do his job without making things weird.
Not so much with a man, apparently. Probably because he was still too unused to the idea of his libido encompassing men to know how to shut it off. And dear God, his libido absolutely encompassed that very male pilot with the smoldering eyes.
Right?
When Jon had walked in and turned Matt’s senses inside out, it had been an easy conclusion.
Yep, I’m bi. Definitely bi. Definitely attracted to dudes.
But now that Matt was alone, the answer got a little grayer.
If he was attracted to men, there was no reason for that attraction to surface now. Why was this week any different than all the years before it? Why had the steel doors been slammed shut, sealed, and not about to budge, and then thrown open like floodgates without warning?
Okay, so being in bed with a naked, aroused man while he too was naked and aroused certainly seemed like a logical catalyst for some latent attraction to jump into the spotlight. It made perfect sense. But shouldn’t he have had some inkling about it before this?
Maybe he was just latching on to Jon because he wanted to convince himself that he hadn’t been stupid enough to get drunk enough to crave the taste of dick. He wanted to hook up with a man when he was sober and coherent. Zero in on the guy before he was hard, breathless, and turned on enough to be unusually open-minded.
Why Jon and not Colin or Daniel? Because Jon was a stranger. A client. A one-time client, presumably, since he wasn’t too keen on getting even this tattoo. So ogling him and maybe even making a pass at him? That was safe. If Jon rejected him, they’d probably never see each other again. If Jon didn’t reject him, and Matt picked an inopportune moment to realize that he was in fact straight, the awkwardness would only last as long as it took one of them to get dressed and leave.
It was worth a try, wasn’t it? He’d flirted with clients before. Even slept with a few. He had no clue how to come on to another guy without sounding like a complete dork, but he’d managed to charm plenty of women over the years, so maybe he’d figure it out.
Except he didn’t even know if Jon was gay. Which was no shock.
I don’t know if I’m gay, bi, or straight, so how the hell should I know what he is?
He rubbed his hands over his face and sighed. This was dumb. Trying to jump the bones of the first man who’d come along and hit the same notes Lisa’s boyfriend had over the weekend.
Not that Jon looked anything like slight, blond Derek.
Hell, maybe working on Jon’s tattoo would give him something to think about besides how much he wanted to get him naked. Or, well, it might have if the squadron had chosen a different body part. Matt had put plenty of tattoos on plenty of asses, but he could honestly say this was the first time he’d be drawing on an ass he wanted to fuck.
He shivered. He really did want this, didn’t he? God. What the hell? Between Saturday night and tonight, it was like the universe had suddenly started conspiring to make him question every angle of his sexuality for the first time in twenty-eight years. It was working, too.
If I’m straight, then why did I enjoy fooling around with Derek so much?
And if I’m straight, why can’t I stop thinking about Jon?
Matt shook himself. He didn’t need to figure it out tonight. After all, it had taken him his whole damn life to even start thinking about this. He didn’t need to have all the answers immediately, right?
He sure as hell wanted them, though.
And as he put away the equipment that would hopefully work tomorrow, he couldn’t decide if he was looking forward to Jon’s appointment on Wednesday, or dreading it.
Chapter 3
“You know, for someone who was just blazing around the sky in a sardine can,” Nate mused as he followed Jon into Skin Deep, Inc., “you’re an awfully big pussy about getting a tattoo.”
“Bite me,” Jon muttered over his shoulder.
His RIO clapped his arm and laughed. Though Jon was annoyed, he had to admit that Nate had a point. They’d been doing flight ops this morning, training on takeoffs and landings on Oceana’s air strip, and Jon hadn’t been nervous at all. He never was unless they were landing on a carrier. Granted he had literally thousands of flight hours under his belt—and God knew how many of those unnerving carrier landings—but still. Now that Nate mentioned it, it was kind of ridiculous to be calm and cool at half the speed of sound, but be sick to his stomach over a tattoo.
Except flying didn’t involve needles, and needles were one phobia Jon had never quite been able to shake off. Putting a billion-dollar bird down on the deck of a storm-tossed aircraft carrier? Scary, but manageable. The sound of the plastic cap being popped off a hypodermic needle so a corpsman could draw blood or give him a flu shot? Fuck no.
Inside Skin Deep, Inc., A silver fox stood at the counter, tattooed to the gills, with a gray beard extending to his collar. He probably had ten or fifteen years on Jon—and several inches—and he was hot as hell. Shame about the gold band on his ink-covered left hand. “Can I help you gentlemen?”
Jon pushed his shoulders back. “I’ve got an appointment. With Matt.”
“Right. Okay.” The guy looked over his shoulder. “Hey, Huffman. Your four o’clock’s here.”
“Just a second.”
The silver fox gestured in the directio
n Matt’s voice had come from. “Like he said—just a second.”
“Thanks.”
“Hey, Pete?” Matt’s voice again. “Have you seen my red sketchbook?”
“You check in the back?” the silver fox—Pete, apparently—asked. “I thought I saw one by the drafting tables earlier.” Pause. “I’ll take a look.” Pete gave an “excuse me” gesture, and stepped into the back of the shop. There was some rustling around, and some voices, and apparently Matt found what he was looking for. Minutes later, as Pete was gathering his wallet, keys, and jacket, Matt stepped out of the side room, wiping his hands on a shop towel. He smiled, and suddenly Jon felt like he was in his bird again. That high-speed, high-adrenaline sensation that came from shooting across the sky.
His head spun, but somehow he managed to articulate, “Hey. I’m, uh . . . ready.”
Matt swallowed, and Jon wondered if that had come out wrong. And not just because he was in no way ready for this. Since the night the Falcons had lost, Jon’s mind had been evenly split between worrying about the tattoo and lusting after Matt. He was getting over the team’s loss—sort of—and making peace with the idea of getting inked, but Matt was still occupying as much space in his brain as the needle anxiety.
He suspected it was a defense mechanism. A way to give his psyche a break from imagining how it would feel to spend an hour with that vibrating needle raking across his sensitive skin and tearing—
“Jon?” Matt cocked his head. “You are ready for this, right?”
“Yeah. Yeah. I’m . . . I’m ready.”
“Okay. Before we get started, I need you to read this and sign it.” He handed Jon a clipboard with a pen and a form on it. “The Cliff’s Notes version is that everyone reacts differently to ink, infections can happen, you need to keep the tattoo clean, and you’re not going to sue us.”
Jon gulped as he picked up the form. Yeah, that was about what it said, though in a language that was a strange balance of plain English and dense legalese. There was even a line that said “Seriously, don’t be stupid—we fucking mean it when we say don’t pick at it.”
The form and its amusing mix of language didn’t do much to calm the roiling in his stomach. He told himself the shop was just covering its ass, and they had to disclose even the rarest possible worst-case scenarios, but thinking about infections and bleeding didn’t make this any easier.
His second thoughts were no surprise. As they came crashing into his mind, it occurred to him that given the location of his new tattoo, this was going to suck tomorrow. Especially when he had to fly. He prayed for one of those freak storms to come in off the Atlantic and batter the Chesapeake Bay hard enough to ground the squadron for a couple of days. It wasn’t likely, but he held out hope anyway.
At least the entire squadron hadn’t tagged along for this. Nate was there for immoral support, as he’d put it, and to make sure Jon didn’t wuss out. The others had also made sure Nate knew it was his duty to photograph and even video the process for posterity. In fact, Jon was pretty sure there was a betting pool on whether he’d pass out like he had after one of his anthrax shots.
Well, no turning back. Jon signed the form and handed it over. “Okay. Let’s do it.”
Nate opened his mouth to speak, but a familiar ringtone—muffled by his jacket pocket—brought a smile to his lips. He took out his phone and gestured with it. “Hubby. Gotta take this.” As he turned away and headed out of the shop, he said, “Hey baby. What’s up?”
Matt—who’d been carefully cutting out a stencil of the tattoo—glanced after him, a hint of a puzzled expression on his face as Nate stepped outside. Turning his attention back to the stencil, he said, “So the Navy really did leave DADT behind.” He paused to trim an edge. “Guys can marry guys and everything.”
“Oh yeah. Those two have been married for three years, together for ten, and our command’s never batted an eye. It’s been a lot less stressful since DADT was lifted, too.” Jon smiled. Then, testing the water, he added, “It’s definitely a good time to be gay in the military.”
Matt glanced up and met his gaze. “Yeah?”
“Mmhmm.”
“Wow. Who’d have thought things would change that fast?”
“I know, right?” Jon nodded in the direction his RIO had gone. “Well, he’s got the whole wedded bliss thing going on. That’s not really for me, though.”
“Yeah?” Matt eyed him. “So what do you prefer?”
Jon looked right at him. “I’m a much bigger fan of being an unrepentant manwhore.”
Matt sounded like he’d nearly choked. His lips parted, and he blinked a few times. “Oh.”
Their eyes locked. Matt was blushing—Jon thought he was too—but he didn’t seem put off. Not offended, anyway. That was a plus.
Duly noted.
“So, uh.” Matt held up the stencil. “Let’s do this.” Jon nodded despite his nerves, and Matt led him behind the counter and into the side room.
Jon had been in here before, but he’d been too nervous to really pay attention to his surroundings. Now he was even more nervous, and really paid attention to his surroundings because he didn’t want to look at that fucking needle.
Like every place in the shop, the walls of the side room were covered from floor to ceiling with tattoo designs—some small, some huge. There was a full-length mirror on one wall, and between the sheets of designs were a few framed photos of elaborate tattoos that Jon assumed were custom. In the center of the wall was a larger image of Matt and another artist hunched over clients, concentrating hard on their respective tattoos. Slightly out of focus in the background, several others did the same.
To the left of the framed photo was a gold plaque, and to the right, a silver one. Both had the same inscription engraved on top—12th Annual Mid-Atlantic Ink Association Competition, Ornamental Category. The silver plaque read 2nd Place, Colin Spencer, Skin Deep, Inc., Virginia Beach, VA. The gold said 1st place, Matt Huffman, Skin Deep, Inc., Virginia Beach, VA.
Jon gestured at it. “I didn’t realize there were competitions for tattoos.”
Matt laughed self-consciously. “There’s competitions for everything.” He gazed at the photo and the plaques, a mix of nostalgia, pride, and something not quite as happy in his expression. “That was probably the one and only time I’ll ever beat Colin. He’s one of the owners here, and he’s good.”
“You must be too.”
He shrugged, pulling his gaze away. “I hold my own.”
“So I see.”
Awkward silence fell. Jon got the feeling Matt was way too shy to talk about his own accomplishments, so he changed the subject. “Where do you want me?”
Matt’s cheeks glowed pink. “You’ll want to, uh . . .”
“Take off my pants?”
“Or, well, drop them enough I can get to where I need to work.” Funny—Jon was the one about to be laid out on the table with his pants rucked down, and it was Matt who blushed like a teenager.
“Okay.” Jon startled unbuckling his belt.
“And before you get on the table . . .” Matt cleared his throat. “We need to put on the stencil, so . . .”
Jon would’ve laughed at this seemingly professional tattooist getting all tongue-tied and red in the face over telling him to drop trou, but he was too nervous himself because dropping trou meant going forward with this fucking tattoo.
Well, better to do this part while Nate was out of the room, so he lowered his pants and boxers far enough to expose his thus-far-unmarked ass cheek. The cool spray of disinfectant or whatever on his skin made his teeth snap shut. Then came the scrape of a disposable razor, followed by the stencil, and there was something equally awkward and sensual about Matt carefully smoothing the stencil onto Jon’s ass cheek. It wasn’t like Jon was a stranger to having his butt kneaded by strong, male hands. He was just . . . not used to it under these circumstances.
When the stencil was in place, Matt had Jon check it out in the mirror. Because that w
asn’t an exercise in awkwardness. At this point, Jon didn’t even give a shit if the damn thing was straight—he just wanted it done so he could stop thinking about how much the needle made him want to puke.
“Looks good.” He swallowed. “So, what do I do? Bend over?”
“Actually, you’ll want to lie on your stomach.” Matt motioned at the table. “It’ll be more comfortable in the long run.”
“Long—” Jon eyed him. “How long are we talking about?”
“It’s not a ton of detail and only has three colors, so . . .” Matt picked up another copy of the stencil and scanned over it. “An hour? Hour and a half?”
Oh God.
But a bet was a bet, and the longer he stood here thinking about it, the longer he put off the inevitable. So, he took his place on the table, and was thankful Nate was out of the room for that dignified procedure. Jon would take every small comfort he could get.
He propped himself up on his forearms and tried to relax. Which was, of course, when he realized that the full-length mirror was directly in front of him, giving him an unobstructed view of himself and of Matt, not to mention the curve of his own exposed ass cheeks. Fantastic.
At least he’d thought to keep his phone handy. Push came to shove, he could screw off on that and keep his mind away from—
The needle buzzed to life, and what little Jon had eaten today very nearly came up.
Matt touched his leg. “You okay?”
“Just . . . don’t like needles.”
“Yeah, I remember.” Matt studied him. “Listen, one of the other artists has a thing he does with someone who’s nervous about the pain. He just puts the needle on dry—no ink—to make sure you can handle it.” He paused. “You want me to do that for you?”
It was tempting, but Jon shook his head. “No. I’m committed to it whether I like it or not, so I’d rather just get it over with.”
“Your call. Ready?”
Jon bit his lip. He’d very nearly made a very loaded comment about being absolutely ready for anything Matt wanted to give him, but remembered where he was before the words had slipped out. He exhaled, then nodded. “Yeah. Let’s do this.”
